


The Art of Giving

by ironlotus



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Ass Play, Because It's His Birthday, Crack treated with the Gravity and Consideration it Deserves, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Just a ton of ass play, M/M, Mutual Pining, PWP, Pillow Princess Will Graham, Pining, Sex Toys, The Cannibalism is Implied, Use of a Necktie as a Wrist Restraint, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, which means Pining with Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:20:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27320362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironlotus/pseuds/ironlotus
Summary: Just order the sex toy, they said.Ships in discreet, non-obvious packaging, they said.Never had any complaints, they said.Well they were in for somefucking complaints, now.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 19
Kudos: 448





	The Art of Giving

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MaddieContrary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaddieContrary/gifts).



> This was supposed to be 1200 words of brainless smut. Apparently I can’t make them bone unless there’s, like, an excessive amount of build up. So here you have it, Maddie. Feelings and smut in a 5:3 ratio.  
> Also, thanks to laststop and bythefireside for beta-reading this and thecutestofborg and Belladonna Wyck for acting as my Copulation Consultants. There would not have been any fucking without you, and there would not have been any point in reading this without you.
> 
> Approximately a 37-minute read.

-+-

The Art of Giving

-+-

For Maddie’s Birthday, Very Belated  
As revenge for tagging me for ‘assplay’ on main  
And as thanks for her friendship  
And charm.

-+-

“It’s not a big deal,” Will said, slumping further into his chair to avoid the sunbeam shining right into his face. 

Hannibal, across from him, thoughtful as ever, stood to draw the curtains. With the change in seasons, sunset started earlier; usually Will’s chair sat close enough to Hannibal’s to not fall in the path of the light, but he’d stormed in the minute he heard the exit door close after his last patient. _Hannibal must not like that patient very much,_ he decided with some affection, as the doctor flicked his wrist to draw first one grey and maroon curtain panel and then the other. Immediate relief.

“Thanks,” he said, and picked the previous subject up again. “I’ve never really celebrated my birthday. Not since I was about ten years old.”

“So young?” Hannibal asked, making his way to the liquor cabinet rather than his chair. Will recognized that gesture by now: a sign they would be on this subject for a while. 

“My father never knew what to give me.” Will rubbed his hands down the legs of his jeans. “I was at an age where all you have to do is check what toys the commercials are advertising during the after-school cartoons, and he never knew what to give me.”

Hannibal, who had been reaching for the wine, changed his mind at that and selected the whiskey instead. He poured a finger into one glass before speaking. “A painful disappointment for a little boy. And your peers?”

Will let that pass, silence lapsing between them save for the pouring of the other glass. He received his whiskey with a bitter smile and waited for Hannibal to make himself comfortable. “Moved around too often. Birthday parties came too soon after school started.” He’d given up the desperate attempt to make friends in time for his birthday early on. 

“But you have a well-established circle now,” Hannibal asserted when Will said nothing more. It did not escape Will’s notice that Hannibal did not call them _friends—_ Will would have argued with him on that point. But a nebulous circle? Yeah. Sure. He had that. “People who would be happy to celebrate you, with or without gifts.”

Will grimaced. Hannibal wouldn’t drop this. _People_ didn’t want to celebrate his birthday; _Hannibal_ did. “Look,” he grumbled, but as he so often did when speaking to Hannibal, he relented in the end. He could compromise if it meant leaving this topic behind in favor of a return to talking about murder. “I’ll let you make me dinner, how about that?”

A slow, minute curl in the corner of the doctor’s lip at that concession. “I am always pleased to celebrate my loved ones.” 

Will almost spit out his drink at that blatant manipulation. _It’s like he’s not even trying anymore._ Any more heavy-handed and it would count as flirting and—well, but it couldn’t be that. No, this was Hannibal knowing what buttons to press, and not hiding the pressing. Charming, how he’d begun letting some of his walls down, just enough for Will to see.

“Only dinner? No gift?”

“I always buy something for myself, if that makes you feel better.” The dissipation of Hannibal’s smile told him it did not. Will found himself unaccountably nervous; something about the way Hannibal looked at him, about the way he insisted on extracting this promise from him. “Fine. If you think you can get me anything I’d actually want, sure. But don’t go out of your way.” Will blinked. He hadn’t meant to phrase it like a challenge; he had meant to try to dissuade him. 

But Hannibal tipped his chin in acquiescence. “A shame that we can’t have dinner on the night of your birthday.” 

“It’s really not a big deal,” Will said, and the conversation came full circle. “Work is work. The convention is only for a few days. You—uh, still okay to take me to the airport?”

“Of course. Shall I look after your dogs for you while you’re gone?” 

Hannibal only asked out of courtesy. To spare Will the pain of having to ask himself. After Stacy, his dog-sitter, had moved away over the summer, he’d looked and failed to find anyone that would care for the dogs up to his standard. Except for Hannibal. But Hannibal lived so far away—Will never wanted to impose. An offer from the man himself, though… that he could accept. 

Hannibal understood the way Will’s mind worked. 

“You don’t mind?” Will asked, at last taking a sip of his drink. Hannibal smiled; answer enough. “Then yeah. Yes. Thank you, Doctor Lecter.”

Will didn’t think about that conversation. Or at least, he didn’t think about it _much._ He’d told Hannibal that he had a habit of buying himself birthday gifts. True enough, though he’d yet to consider what to order this year. 

He didn’t need much to get by; didn’t have an impulse to keep up with the Joneses; and advertising, manipulation at its most basic level, didn’t work on him. Not anymore, anyway, not since he was a kid and realized that he’d never get the toys pushed during commercials. Then again, even if he’d gotten them, they weren’t what he really wanted. He’d wanted happiness, the kind the kids in the ads had. The kind that came from doting parents. But his father… well. His father lived life at the bottom of Maslow’s pyramid. So, in general, Will spent money on the house or the dogs or hobby gear. 

But nothing that would really count as a _gift_ _to himself_. 

That wording stuck, replaying in his head throughout the drive home. That, and Hannibal’s quasi-flirting, and the realization that nobody had bothered flirting with him in a while. Maybe that explained why, when he sat down to browse the internet for his birthday gift, he navigated not to the fishing supply store he always shopped from, but to an adult goods store. A gift for himself, right? 

They’d talked about toys. There was _context._

And he hadn’t bought himself a toy in a while. 

It took a little searching to figure out what he wanted. Above all else, Will decided he wanted something with more than one application. So, no fleshlights. Or butt plugs, even though his gaze lingered on one with a hand-carved rosette on the end; or dildos. He briefly considered anal beads, but—no. Again, limited methods of use.

In the end, he settled on an egg vibrator—but fancy with a wireless remote control. _Variety._ A man could be optimistic. He might find the energy to start dating again. Might want to use it with a partner someday. _Okay, so that’s unlikely._ But not impossible. So, depending on who that partner was, the uses would change. Depending on who _he_ was on any given day, the uses would change. 

So he bought it. In purple. Because why not.

Two days later, he received his order confirmation. Slow processing on their end, but it should still arrive— _Shit._ It wouldn’t arrive until halfway through his conference trip. His skin broke out in a clammy sweat as he tapped out an email to their customer service. He prayed it wouldn’t take them another two days to reply, but their customer service team answered within the hour, and their reply relieved him. 

“Don’t worry,” it read. “We ship in discreet packaging, and we’ve never had a complaint. I can have the item sent directly from the manufacturer if you’re worried about the timing. It would arrive by Thursday at the very latest. Please let me know how you would like to proceed.”

He emailed them back without wasting another second. “Direct from manufacturer works,” he grumbled as he typed those same words into the reply. Discreet packaging, great. But arriving early enough for the packing to be a non-issue? Even better.

But with Will Graham’s luck, unsurprisingly, Thursday came and went without a delivery. The tracking information marked it as ‘in transit,’ but the estimated arrival date still said Thursday, even late into the evening. He checked it intermittently as he packed his suitcase, but when the clock hit nine and the Bentley rolled up to the house, he gave up. 

Murmured greetings as Hannibal opened the trunk to deposit Will’s roll-aboard bag. _Discreet packaging,_ he reassured himself, as he got into the car. “So, I’m expecting a few things in the mail while I’m away.” He buckled his seatbelt. “Would you mind checking for them?”

“Of course not,” Hannibal murmured, waiting until the buckle clicked and Will settled in his seat before turning the car around and starting the trek to Dulles. “Your birthday gift?”

“Yeah.” He fidgeted. “Thanks again for the ride. You didn’t have to.”

Hannibal didn’t dignify the latter with a response. They both knew he never did anything unless he wanted to. Will still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that more often than not, what Hannibal wanted was to spend time with _him._ Not that he would complain about it. He would _never_ complain about it. “Which airline are you flying?”

“Um. Southwest. FBI’s on a budget.”

The corner of Hannibal’s lips tipped downward, and for a moment Will worried that Hannibal had been about to offer to _provide something more comfortable._ Then he’d have to explain that Southwest didn’t have a first-class cabin and that he couldn’t return the ticket, anyway. But Hannibal said nothing, and Will breathed a sigh of relief. He always seemed to know.

“You’ll check in with me about the dogs?” Will asked, fifteen minutes later, as he stood on the curb with one hand on his suitcase. He couldn’t bring himself to take that first step away from the car. Hannibal, perceptive as ever, did not rush him or show any sign of impatience. _Maybe he doesn’t want me to go either._

“Yes,” Hannibal said. “And I am looking forward to hearing about the conference if you have the time.”

Will hesitated still, but at last, gave in. While they’d been standing there, two taxis had pulled up behind the Bentley to drop off their passengers, one after another. Neither of them wanted to go, but if they stood around any longer, security would come over and yell at him for loitering. So he said his goodbyes with an awkward wave and made his way into the airport. Hannibal didn’t return to the car until Will stepped through the foyer and looked back out through the glass. A moment of eye-contact, the exchange of soft smiles, and they were both on their way. 

Hannibal texted him the next day to say that his package had arrived. ‘I’ve set it on your nightstand,’ the following text said, and Will’s stomach froze with anxiety for a moment until he recalled the assurances of the support person. He wondered about choosing the bedside table as the place to leave it, but Hannibal had his eccentricities. It might be the one mostly clear flat surface in the house, aside from the kitchen counters, but Hannibal wouldn’t leave it _there._ When he puppy-sat, Hannibal cooked the dogs their food—he insisted every time, until Will stopped arguing—so the nightstand would be the most _out of way_ place for it.

That evening, Hannibal called him with his nightly report. “Buster is a menace,” he said in lieu of a greeting, though Will could hear the smile in his voice.

“He… he can be a naughty boy.” A huff of laughter from the other end of the line. “What did he do?”

“He brought me a squirrel to make for dinner.”

They laughed, before it occurred to Will that— _oh no._ “You didn’t use the squirrel in their food, did you?”

“Of _course not,_ ” Hannibal tsked, offended. “Squirrels carry all sorts of diseases. I am no less particular in what I feed you and yours than I am in what I feed myself.”

 _And thank fuck for that._ Relief washed over him, and he crossed his motel room to lie on the bed. The mattress was too soft, but looking at the ceiling now, and listening to the sounds of Hannibal moving around in the kitchen, he could imagine he was at home, waiting for Hannibal to call him to the table. “I’ve been meaning to ask you for the name of your butcher. The roast we had last time was incredible.”

“A happy pig,” Hannibal intoned with humor. “But still a pig. I thought perhaps we could have beef for your birthday dinner.”

“Not squirrel?”

A laugh. “Mint-crusted rack of veal,” Hannibal mused, resuming the subject. “Roasted vegetables, an autumnal salad, perhaps a celeriac puree?” 

“Sounds delicious.” He hadn’t really been listening, but the sound of Hannibal’s voice when he discussed menu choices _was_ delicious. Low, melodic, sweet. He undid the top button of his shirt.

“You land at five-thirty that evening?” Hannibal asked. “I’ll pick you up. You’ll have time to catch up with the dogs, shower away your travel, and unwind a little before dinner at seven-thirty. Does that suit you?”

“Mhm.” A beat. “Wait—right when I get back?”

“I have decided on a gift for you,” Hannibal said. “And I am eager for the giving.”

“Hannibal.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “You know how I feel about gifts.”

“Ah, but I am _certain_ that you will want this one.”

 _A dog._ The idea appeared from the ether. But no. Hannibal wouldn’t get him a dog. Animals and responsibility came hand in hand, and Hannibal wouldn’t burden—not that he considered pets a burden—Will with that responsibility without discussing it with him first. 

“You didn’t have to,” he grumbled, but as usual, Hannibal asked, and Will gave in. 

He shouldn’t have wasted his time with the conference. Not that he ever had a choice; Jack picked who went, and he always picked Will. But the speakers disappointed him every time. Some research at the poster sessions had merit, but really, the presenters could have condensed it them to PDF downloads and YouTube links; no reason to pay for conference admission and two nights at a hotel for _five_ interesting ten-minute presentations. And Jack’s insistence on keeping Will at his side as he networked and glad-handed during the cocktail hours and fancy dinners each evening left Will beyond drained. He considered the weekend a total bust, except for the few phone calls when Hannibal reported on the dogs, and the moment when Will took his seat for the flight home.

He napped on the flight, and again during the short car-ride home. Hannibal even encouraged him to rest as they loaded his bag into the trunk. He knew Will. Knew he would need a moment to recharge. 

The dogs—still seven, he counted—greeted him as though he’d left for weeks rather than a weekend, and their open affection rejuvenated him. He played outside with them for twenty minutes before even stepping foot into the house, and Hannibal took over the paw-cleaning so that Will could unwind in peace.

Heart light and mind clear, Will dropped his bag on the mattress and rifled his Dopp kit out before grabbing some clean clothes from the dresser. “I’m gonna shower,” he called over his shoulder. And then he saw the small package on his nightstand. 

_If Hannibal wants to give me a gift,_ he thought, seized by a sudden terror, _maybe he wants to see me open this one too. Open all of them together._ As quietly as he could manage, he tucked the box between his belly and the pile of clothing and toiletry kit he pressed to it. Poorly concealed, but Hannibal remained occupied at the door. He wouldn’t see. 

Will climbed the steps two at a time and tossed his burdens on the bathroom counter before shutting and locking the door. With a sigh, the last few minutes of stress melted from his shoulders. He picked up the parcel to stow it in the cabinet under the sink—

And then his heart stopped beating. 

“Oh my god,” he wheezed, breath punched from his lungs, extremities tingling from his rising panic. 

Right there, on the shipping label, in large bold letters: **Contents: Anal Sex Toy For Man Gay Butt**. 

Will nearly collapsed against the bathroom door. Dear God. Now his placement of the box on his nightstand made painful, embarrassing sense. 

_Discreet packaging._ Even the voice of his thoughts bordered on hysteria. _Never had a complaint._ They were going to get _some fucking complaints._

Humiliated, he shoved the box in the cabinet and turned the shower water on, tipping the handle all the way to the left. Miserable and desperately trying to control his breathing and calm down, he stepped under the scalding spray of the shower. If it were anyone but Hannibal downstairs, he would have stayed under the water until it ran ice-cold, melting away his mortification and then freezing his panic. But he couldn’t do that to Hannibal. Couldn’t leave him waiting, not when he’d gone out of his way to make him dinner. Not when he’d _bought him a present._

 _He’s got tact,_ he reminded himself as he toweled off. And then again, as he dressed in his plain t-shirt and jeans, he repeated the refrain. _Hannibal has_ tact. He knew how to handle awkward situations, how to manage them without embarrassing anybody. He had put the delivery on Will’s nightstand without saying a word on the subject because he knew that Will would not want him to know. He wouldn’t want to see Will open the package because he already knew what it contained, and would want to protect Will’s dignity. 

So, even though it pained him, he exited the bathroom and made his way downstairs. 

Hannibal greeted him with a benign smile, a brief thing before he returned to decanting the bottle of red wine he had selected for the evening. Hannibal probably shouldn’t have looked up—the moment that he raised his head, in an uncharacteristic moment of clumsiness, he jostled the bottle. The wine swirled up over the edge of the glass, and a droplet of red splashed onto the front of Hannibal’s shirt, right above where his apron wrapped around his waist.

“Oh,” Will groaned. “That sucks.”

“Accidents happen,” Hannibal sighed as he set the bottle down on the table, examining the spot on his shirt. “Luckily, I always come prepared. Excuse me a moment.” In two swift strides, he turned to the kitchen, untying his apron as he went. He pulled a plastic tube of Wine-Off! from the outside pocket of one of his totes and then disappeared up the stairs to the bathroom. 

Will ambled into the kitchen and, seeing the careful arrangement of items on the counter, moved things around as he passed. A common game they played when they spent time together, though admittedly, usually in Hannibal’s office. Or his sitting room. While he’d been in the shower, the sun had set and Hannibal, as usual, lit the lamps instead of turning on the ceiling lights. The room had taken on a soft, amber-warm glow, cozier than he was used to seeing it. In the midst of realigning the serving spoons so they lay parallel rather than perpendicular to the edge of the counter, a glimmer in the light caught his attention.

The gift. 

A small present, a cube about the size of a magic eight-ball. He eyed its neat wrapping of navy blue paper with gold foil pinstripes from a distance, unwilling to get any closer. Rather than an adhesive bow, Hannibal had taken a long, translucent gold ribbon and tied it into a confection of a bow. At least a yard of ribbon, all for this tiny little package. No matter what the gift, Hannibal had put thought into it. Something between fear and affection caught in his chest

He didn’t want to disappoint him, but experience told him he would open it and feel obligated to pretend to a joy he didn’t feel. 

And yet…

Of the handful of people Will had ever called a friend, Hannibal understood him, saw through his masks, the best. 

So Will decided to give Hannibal the benefit of the doubt. He shunted off his anxieties, determined to enjoy the meal, and their usual fare for conversation. Murder and Merlot went well together; philosophy with whiskey.

A chuckle from his left made Will jump nearly a foot off the floor. Hannibal, with his preternaturally silent tread, had snuck up on him yet again. His own game he liked to play. “Will you never desist?” he asked, reorganizing the garnish bowls that Will had scrambled earlier. 

“When you stop startling me like that.” 

A quick, wicked grin that made something in Will’s chest tighten. “Then it seems we are at an impasse.”

“This is the hill you want to die on?”

“I’ll be pleased to go in good company,” Hannibal said, and Will had to avert his face to hide his blush. 

It became abundantly clear after this exchange, that Hannibal wouldn’t let Will get lost in his unease. His charm smoothed Will’s ruffled feathers. The liberal topping off of their wine glasses throughout the meal may have helped. The low-toned conversation and irreverent banter certainly did. And the food. _God,_ the food, as always.

“Delicious, as always,” he said, raising his wine-glass to his lips in a toast of thanks, partway through the meal. “You might want to have a word with your butcher, though.”

Hannibal took no offense to this suggestion, uttering only a benign, “Oh?” 

“Rack of veal apparently looks eerily similar to human ribs.”

They both smiled; Hannibal’s lips tinted ever so slightly darker from the Merlot, the corners of his eyes crinkling attractively. “Have you never eaten it before?” At Will’s bemused head-shake, he went on, “We are more like our bovine brethren than perhaps we would care to admit. And not only as far as bone and tissue are concerned.” This, of course, brought on a debate to how like cattle the human mind could be, an entertaining change in tone from their usual discussions of the nature of man, which lasted until the end of the meal. 

“Really, Hannibal, you outdid yourself,” Will said, setting his fork and knife down in the ‘finished’ position.

“I have _not,_ ” Hannibal countered, swirling his beverage once more before taking another sip. “But I am about to.”

The anxiety, like a simmering pot forgotten on the stove, came to a sudden boil, overflowing onto Will as Hannibal stood from his seat to clear their dishes and then to reach for the gift, marking the inevitable transition to the next portion of the evening. Will forced whatever remained of his smile to fix itself on his face, cheeks straining from the unnatural posture. 

Hannibal took one look at Will and laughed. “I am perfectly aware of your sentiments,” he said. “There’s no need to force yourself.” 

Will dropped the rigid grin and resisted the urge to wring his hands together. “Sorry. You know birthdays are—are hard for me.”

“I do,” Hannibal agreed. “But this one need not feel hard yet.” He paused. “I happen to know for a fact that you will enjoy your gift. If that’s any reassurance.”

It wasn’t. 

But Hannibal did not expect confirmation. He ushered the dogs out through the kitchen door, before he returned with the navy-and-gold gift in his hands, and set it gently down on the table in the place where Will’s dinner plate had been. 

When Will didn’t move, Hannibal walked around the table to resume his seat. He got comfortable, eyeing Will as he sat still as a statue before him. “Will.” 

Will startled, so focused on the packaging, the way it glimmered in the low light, that he’d drowned out everything else. He raised his hands to the table, resting them on either side of the box. 

“Open it, Will.” He prompted, gentle, and leaned forward, anticipating Will’s compliance.

With another weak smile, Will raised his hands, hesitating above the gold ribbon. _Open it, Graham. Get it over with._

The ribbon, for all the complexity with which Hannibal had tied it, came apart with little effort. He slipped it from the box, letting it puddle on the wood. He held the box aloft for another moment—caught the humorous tilt of Hannibal’s lips in the background—and set the gift down on the table. _Please let me be convincing._

“Do you need a hand?” Hannibal teased.

“No thanks, I’ve got this.” Will said, prim.

“You certainly do,” Hannibal replied, and quieted again as Will’s fingers at last bent to tackle the wrapping paper. 

He peeled the tape off as gently as he could manage. In part, to appreciate the beautiful paper, after Hannibal had gone to such lengths to wrap it; but largely, to delay opening the actual gift inside. This only worked for so long before the paper came off, and only removing the cover remained. 

He sucked in a deep breath, and with a last glance at Hannibal, whose smile said _affection_ and _encouragement,_ he at last opened his present. 

“Oh my god,” he wheezed, sweat erupting on the palms of his hands with his surging panic. Right there, displayed the way fine jewelry might be on velvet bedding, lay the most expensive-looking, prettiest—

“This is a vibrator,” Will deadpanned, feeling as though he might faint, crumble out of his chair and onto the dining room floor. Now Hannibal’s certainty—his stupid little double-entendres—made painful, embarrassing sense. “You got me a _vibrator,_ Hannibal?” Will squeaked, lightheaded, and still unable to look away from the cursed object inside.

But Hannibal, patient as ever, waited until Will managed to pry his eyes from the black silicone egg and remote control nestled in front of him. “I assure you that this one is the best of its type,” he said, as though _that was the problem here._ “This is a supplement to the one you’ve purchased for yourself, of course, not a replacement.”

“A supplement?” Will reeled, only belatedly noticing the change in Hannibal’s tone of voice. Somehow—rawer. More vulnerable. 

“Better together, rather than alone,” Hannibal said. That was the moment that Will looked up. That their eyes met, that he understood.

For a man that had just given a sex toy as a birthday present, Hannibal’s eyes reflected startlingly deep pools of emotion. He’d grown used to Hannibal’s restraint. Had begun to acclimate to Hannibal allowing him peeks behind the veil. But now he held nothing back. Will’s mortification all but disappeared.

 _‘I am always pleased to celebrate my loved ones._ ’

Hannibal’s eyes flitted over Will’s face, reading his expression, and he came to his feet. Will couldn’t bring himself to look away—they held eye contact as Hannibal advanced around the table and came to stand at Will’s side.

“Will you take what I’m giving you?” Hannibal asked. 

Not a question about the toy. He scooted his chair back and rotated to face the doctor as he spoke. “Is there no end to the terrible puns, Hannibal?” Will teased, all embarrassment cast aside. 

Hannibal’s lips quirked in a smile—there and gone—and he raised his hands to settle on Will’s shoulders. They lingered there for a moment before his left smoothed up to cradle the nape of Will’s neck, his right to cup Will’s cheek. “I know you,” Hannibal murmured. “I know what you want.”

“You _read the label_ on my birthday gift.”

“You don’t want the vibrator, dear boy,” Hannibal countered, not the least bit frustrated. “You want _me._ ”

“Do I?” 

_Do I?_ He blinked, already feeling hazy in the face of all of Hannibal’s desire, warm all over from the heat radiating from Hannibal’s touch. _Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do._

“You do,” Hannibal murmured, with far more certainty than the echo in Will’s thoughts. “You and I are just alike. We are better together, rather than alone. And we are both alone, without each other.”

Hannibal’s lips drifted progressively closer to Will’s as he spoke, and Will’s eyelids drifted progressively lower. “Happy Birthday to me,” Will sighed, and Hannibal, at last, pressed their lips together. 

Will's hands drifted up to settle on Hannibal’s waist, and Hannibal stepped closer. He didn’t crowd in, though. Will tucked his fingers into the belt loops on Hannibal’s pants, untroubled by the distance, but unwilling to let him retreat. Retreat, though, seemed to be the furthest thing on Hannibal’s mind. He brought his hands to Will’s arms and pulled him gently forward, sliding off the chair and onto his feet. 

Now that they had kissed, now that their bodies touched, Will knew that he would never let them separate again. Hannibal’s words had never rung so true. _We’ll conjoin,_ he thought, desperation coloring the ardor of their kisses. _We’re both alone without each other._ His arms wrapped around Hannibal’s torso of their own volition, holding him tight as their chests pressed together. 

When at last Hannibal pulled his mouth—still warm, spicy, and oaken from the wine—from Will’s, he did so only to touch their foreheads together. 

“May I give you your gift now?” Hannibal asked.

“You? Or the vibrator?” Will laughed, staring up into the doctor’s eyes. 

“ _Will._ ” 

Hannibal’s hand pressed between their chests. Will groaned, releasing his grip around Hannibal’s back, letting him take a step away. But not too far. The doctor seemed to be of the same opinion—he stayed close, reaching to the table to pick the gift off the top, and then leading Will over to his bed, off on the side of the living room, where—

“Christ,” Will said, eyeing the brown packet on his nightstand. “When did you—oh. Oh, God. The splash of wine was a ruse?” At this point, he couldn’t bring himself to be mad about it.

A quick grin before Hannibal pressed the middle of Will’s back until his shins abutted the side of the mattress. A solid push toppled him—in concert with an undignified yelp—and Will rolled onto his back to shoot Hannibal a threatening glare. But Hannibal, already on the other side of the bed, merely tossed him the package, with its nauseating label face up, of course, before grabbing Will’s bottle of lube from the nightstand and returning to Will’s side. “You’ve been snooping?” Will asked in mock outrage. 

Hannibal didn’t answer. Didn’t even bother to watch as Will tore the packet open, either, too busy sliding Will’s socks from his feet, then negotiating with the fly of Will’s jeans. 

For his part, Will tore through the cardboard and ripped his other new toy from its cheap plastic packaging, so marked a contrast from the elegant container Hannibal’s had arrived in. He dropped it on the cover beside him, freeing his hands up to tug his shirt up over his head, and then raising his hips to help Hannibal in stripping his jeans, placing a pillow beneath his hips and lower back. 

When Hannibal had positioned Will the way he wanted him, he covered Will’s body with his own. Looming above him this way, his clothing brushing Will’s naked skin, Will couldn’t resent being the only one naked. Especially not when Hannibal soothed him with a kiss, with roaming hands. In fact, Will almost appreciated that Hannibal still wore that crisp, white shirt, because it gave him something to hold on to, to cling to, when he felt overcome by sensation. 

Fingers tickling down his neck, tracing the line of his clavicle. Moist lips and sharp teeth, kissing then nipping at his jawline, then following in the wake of his questing fingers. A tweak to his nipple, a firm grip at his hip. 

“Hannibal,” Will protested, raising his head off the bed, eyes tracing the indentations of his flesh under Hannibal’s tight grip, the path of his lips across his belly, down his thigh. 

“Relax,” Hannibal murmured, skirting Will’s erection and nibbling his way down Will’s quad to his knee, pushing the leg out to the side, spreading him open.

Hannibal seemed determined to spoil him. _Fuck it,_ he thought, head lolling back onto the covers, eye blinking through the haze of arousal up at his ceiling. _It’s my birthday._ He sighed in languid contentment, letting Hannibal do as he pleased. 

What Hannibal pleased, apparently, had a lot to do with settling on his knees at the foot of the bed, his fingers and tongue trailing a path back up the inside of his thigh. 

“That’s why the shower,” Will murmured, a little lightbulb going off again. But Hannibal’s answering chuckle pressed tightly to the crease between leg and hip, had him floating on waves of pleasure again. “Tickles.”

“Does it,” Hannibal murmured, nosing at Will’s balls. Will let out a shuddering breath at the contact. At the same moment, Hannibal breathed in deep, and his arms looped under Will’s legs, pushing them up, curling Will’s body in on itself. He moved so quickly that Will didn’t have time to protest before Hannibal’s mouth came down on him, humid and hot, right in the last place Will expected it to go. 

In retrospect, a silly oversight.

Of course, Hannibal would go there. Of course, he would leverage his body weight to pin Will in place, his broad hands to hold him open. Of course, he would lick into Will, like a man starved, like a man who hadn’t just served them a three-course dinner. Of course, he would make those satisfied little hums, echoes of the sounds from Will’s own lips as he ate the remarkably human-like veal ribs. 

Will’s own lips buzzed with a groan, formed in the shape of the word _fuck._ He’d had one girlfriend who’d done this for him before, but only once, and reluctantly. Hannibal—Hannibal seemed at home down there, like there was nowhere else he’d rather be, or anything else he’d want to be—

“Jesus _fuck_!” 

Another chuckle, accompanying the wet slide of Hannibal’s lubed finger around his hole. He pressed, firm pressure behind his balls that scattered tingles up Will’s spine. The digit made another circuit around before pressing against him, then pressing into him. Deeper, deeper. Until his knuckles pressed and rocked against Will’s perineum.

Will’s breath hitched. 

If for a moment, he alternated between a little uncomfortable and fiercely turned on, Hannibal helped him make up his mind. He pulled his finger free, and then pushed through again, repeating that penetration, wiggling the digit around when his knuckles met Will’s flesh. Again and again, he did this, soothing Will’s ache with the hot caress of his tongue. 

And then, when he pushed into Will again, it was _not_ with his finger, but with something broader, firmer. Something—“ _Oh,_ oh _no,_ ” he wailed—that vibrated.

He could barely hear the low, thrumming pulse of the little device, but its quietness said nothing about its intensity. About its ability to make Will’s back bowed off the bed and rip another broken moan free from his throat as Hannibal nudged it further into him. And then, the way he’d done with his finger before, pulling it out, soothing Will with his tongue—his skin still vibrating despite the absent toy—and then penetrating him again. A little further this time, a little more insistently. 

Will’s skin broke out in a sweat. His hand reached blindly for Hannibal, landing in his ash-brown hair, fingers curling into a death-grip, giving the doctor no room to move. This earned him an amused chuckle, kisses pressed to his inner thighs, and another firm push at the base of the vibrator. This time, Hannibal did not pull back. 

“There, now,” Hannibal murmured, and approval rang so strongly in his voice that Will’s cheeks flamed. “Let’s get you settled…”

In that moment, Will’s hands spasmed, his grip in Hannibal’s hair loosed long enough for the doctor to duck free. And then his fingertip chased the toy, prodding it deeper until it nestled where it needed to be to make Will’s jaw alternately clamp closed and fall lax in agony.

_Not agony—pleasure._

A bit of both. Doubled, when Hannibal’s delightfully crooked teeth chomped into the meat of his thigh, right above his left knee, then trailed sucking kisses up to nibble at the sensitive skin over his adductors, as high up as he could go. 

He couldn’t help it if he tried. Not that he did. Will’s hands had fisted into the bedsheets after Hannibal escaped him, but now they released it, one flying to his mouth, to give him something to bite down on, to gasp around. The other snaked its way down his torso to grab a hold of his cock, aching where it lay abandoned against his belly. 

But he never made it that far. “Ah, ah,” Hannibal chided, gripping Will’s wrist before he could wrap his fingers around his flesh. “I believe I told you to relax, dear boy?”

“That’s a tall order,” Will gasped, unable to focus on the bone-crunchingly tight grasp of Hannibal’s hand around his straying hand. 

“Allow me to simplify the proposition for you,” Hannibal replied. He tugged his tie free from his neck in a move so slick and devastating that Will couldn’t summon the desire to argue when Hannibal brought his together, wrapped them tightly in the silk, and then tied them to the headboard of his bed. 

Will tried to swallow down the garbled wail that tore from his throat. He really did. But how could he hope to succeed when Hannibal turned up the intensity on the vibrator inside of him, in concert with pressing the other through his parted lips, and down against his tongue? His lips closed around it, abutting Hannibal's fingers where they held it; his tongue laved the jelly-like purple silicone, following those implicit instructions. 

A gasp, his lips popping open and head recoiling into the pillow when Hannibal’s thumb toggled the on-switch, and the slender egg began vibrating against his tongue. 

“Be good,” Hannibal leaned down and murmured the words directly into Will’s ear, hot breath teasing that sensitive skin. “Be good, Will.” And he pressed the vibrating purple egg between Will’s lips and down on his tongue again. 

It tickled. It felt odd. He didn’t hate it. When Hannibal pulled the egg out but left his middle and index fingers inside, the echoes of its vibrations dampened by the flesh there, he kind of liked it even. 

He liked it when Hannibal’s free hand took the vibrator and pressed it to one nipple as he suckled at the other, sharp edges of his teeth scraping against the delicate skin. He liked it when Hannibal’s digits left his mouth to tweak the still-buzzing skin the egg left behind as he trailed it down Will’s chest to his belly. He liked it when, slick and moving, it pressed against his navel, then tickled its way down to—

“ _Hannibal, Hannibal,_ ” Will gasped, hands, at last finding the energy to fight against the tie, but too late. “Oh my God, _stop._ ”

And Hannibal did, immediately. He pulled the purple vibrator from where he’d pressed it to stimulate Will’s prostate from the outside. No questions asked, he drew the tool away. 

But the lack of stimulation hurt worse than its insistent, oscillating pressure, and Will felt entirely unashamed about changing his mind immediately. “No—no, fuck, do it again, keep _going._ ”

Again, no argument—Hannibal followed his instructions without delay. He rocked the buzzing little thing against Will with one hand, and with the other, resumed his earlier teasing of Will’s opening. And then his tongue came into play, and _fuck everything_ if Will didn’t see stars. 

His hips rocked mindlessly where they lay propped on the pillow, his cock straining for something to slide against, leaking precome. The pressure against him felt unsurmountable, and the pressure inside of him grew on an exponential curve—his skin flushed hot, breaking out in sweat on his forehead, behind his knees, the insides of his elbows. Those punched-out moans came from _his mouth,_ but he had no hope of controlling them in the face of the rising tide of pleasure.

His quads clenched, his toes curled, his entire body shook, his stomach tensed, and—“Oh, God, _Hannibal,_ I’m gonna—What? _No!”_

A grunt from below. Hannibal tossed the purple toy onto the coverlet beside Will’s head. 

“Why did you _stop_?” Will cried, rising as far off the bed as he could. The black one, still inside of him, still spurred him forward. But that didn’t matter—the wave receded in the face of Will’s disillusionment.

“It seems to have run out of battery.”

“You’re—What? No way. Really?” As one, they glared at the little toy, still glistening with Will’s saliva, with his precome. “That’s a—what a piece of shit. The reviews said the battery life lasted.”

“I’m sure it’s battery life is adequate for the cost,” Hannibal sniffed. 

“That’s—” Will’s face burned with embarrassment. “I spent like thirty bucks on that thing.”

“A point in favor of my argument,” Hannibal said, though he’d apparently lost interest in the subject, in favor of resuming his previous task. His long, dexterous fingers trailed a caress across his collar bones and then plucked at Will’s nipples before moving out of sight to tug at his gift, which sat, still nestled and rumbling, battery strong, inside of Will. 

Will’s reflexive moan at the sudden movement came out low, then pitched upward as the toy tugged at his rim, still oscillating. He couldn’t help but clamp down on it, to Hannibal’s tut of disapproval. Another slow tug, more teasing than an earnest attempt to remove the little egg, had Will’s hips rocking again.

His blood thrummed in his ears, his tongue swept over his lips, every part of him tingling. Hannibal’s hand—the one not torturing him with the toy—grasped at the inside of Will’s thigh, bruisingly tight, before releasing him entirely. Will couldn’t pay attention to where it went, though, not when Hannibal’s thumb massaged a slow circle against his perineum, as his fingers tugged on the tether that slowly removed the vibrator. 

A gasp when it popped out, but it didn’t go far. Hannibal replaced his thumb with it, keeping those slow, massaging circles going. And then something else nudged against him, down there.

Burning hot, slippery with lube—

“Hannibal, _please,_ ” Will groaned, almost out of his mind, incoherent with lust.

“Ahh, see? This what you wanted all along, dear boy.” Hannibal pressed himself forward. “Not some toy—you wanted to fall apart in _my hands._ ”

Will pried his eyes open, a monumental effort. “One of your hands is holding a toy.”

Hannibal laughed, and his eyes crinkled in a way that flooded Will’s chest with affection. “What am I to do with you?”

“You could fuck me,” Will murmured, lashes lowering again as Hannibal dropped the black vibrator on the bed, as he reached up and tugged the silk tie loose from around Will’s wrists. “That would be nice.”

Apparently, Hannibal had nothing to say to that bit of sass. He gripped Will’s legs behind his knees, pressed them up toward his torso, and nudged his way inside. 

A shudder coursed over Will’s body, down his spine. The slickness of the lube, Hannibal’s heat, the friction where their skin pressed together, the sudden fullness, the gentle affection in Hannibal’s eyes… everything about this moment was perfection. 

“There, now,” Hannibal murmured again, when their bodies touched everywhere they could, no space between them. The white luxury cotton of his suit shirt blotted the rivulets of sweat that had gathered on Will’s sternum, the wool-silk blend of his trousers tickled the insides of Will’s thighs, his calves, where his legs wrapped around Hannibal’s torso to bring him closer. 

He’d never put thought into what Hannibal would be like as a lover, for all that the desire to experience him this way had been a steadily ignored ache in the back of his mind for months, now. If he had put any thought into it, he would have thought, _generous,_ maybe. _Giving to a fault._ These reflections weren’t too far off the mark, at least in terms of the ultimate effect. 

Hannibal _was_ generous, giving. He adjusted his pace, the depth of his movements, his distance from Will’s body, all to draw out Will’s pleasure, to bring him to the brink. But his generosity stemmed from selfishness. “Look how you fall apart for me,” he would say when Will trembled; when his hands tugged at Hannibal’s shirt in an ineffectual attempt to rid him of the fabric that separated them, “See how your skin aches for mine.” 

And Will—Will too was giving to a fault. But not out of selfishness. No—the wave of Hannibal’s pleasure swept him away, further than his own pleasure had. The building orgasm as Hannibal played with him before felt like nothing, when compared to the way Hannibal exalted at filling him, at pinning him down and taking him, at making him _want_ him. Hannibal’s pleasure felt more real than Will’s own, more urgent. 

“Hannibal,” Will moaned, already succumbing to the rising pressure. “Hannibal, I—”

And then, finally— _dear God, finally—_ Hannibal’s hand slipped in between their bodies and wrapped around Will’s cock. 

“Oh, oh _no,_ ” Will moaned, and with one tight squeeze of Hannibal’s fist around him, Will gave in. His voice rattled his throat, incomprehensible sounds tearing from it as he came over his belly and Hannibal’s fingers, the ripples of his satisfaction making his legs quake and his grip on Hannibal’s shirt spasm.

But Hannibal did not stop moving. Not his hand. Not his hips. He scooped up Will’s come and used it to lubricate his fist as it pumped Will’s straining cock. He didn’t seem to mind the jerky movements of Will’s hips as he tried to retreat from the overstimulation.

 _Selfish,_ Will thought, fingers digging into Hannibal’s biceps, fighting down the urge to kick him away. 

“You need only endure,” Hannibal grunted, lips coming down against Will’s neck, “a moment longer.” He licked the sweat from Will’s skin, then latched his lips and teeth around the flesh, sucking hard. Will grunted, neck craning, electricity zinging from every point of contact, body about to rebel from the stimulation.

And then Hannibal made an answering sound of his own—low, rumbling, from deep in his chest. It vibrated Will’s skin where Hannibal’s mouth still tucked in tight against it. Caged in like this, with Hannibal’s body over and inside him, Will may as well be inside a furnace. Sticky heat filled him as Hannibal’s body trembled with his release, and the humidity of their exertion blanketed him from head to toe. Aside from their panting breaths, neither of them moved.

His hands had slid up, at some point—one tangled in Hannibal’s hair, the other traced the bumps of his spine through his shirt. Hannibal still had him by the dick in one hand, the other pressing Will’s left leg up so far his knee almost touched the mattress beside him. 

Hannibal seemed to come back to himself first. He pressed a kiss at Will’s neck and then hoisted himself upright. Will shook a little from the change in angle, how Hannibal’s cock within him moved as he straightened. 

_Hah._ Very little about this situation counted as straight. 

“Ah,” he groaned, wincing a little as Hannibal pulled out part-way, and then pressed forward again, a wet sound filling the air between them. “What are you _doing_?”

Hannibal didn’t reply, only repeated the motion, lazily bucking his hips forward a few more times before stepping away entirely. 

_Selfish._

“A moment,” Hannibal said, and disappeared, returning a moment later with a washcloth at the ready. Will had scooted up the bed, head lying on a pillow, limbs in starfish position to cool off, staying that way as Hannibal cleaned him off.

To Will’s surprise, Hannibal lay on his side beside him, leaned over, and dropped feather-light kisses over Will’s forehead, his fingers toying idly with Will’s curls. “Did you enjoy your gifts?” Hannibal asked, expression innocent. 

A startled laugh burst from Will’s lips. “I think we both did,” he said. And then, teasing, “Maybe next time, get me a dog? Something that’s more a gift for _me_ than it is for you?”

The finger wrapped in Will’s curl tugged. “I am uncertain how to reply to that.”

“Well, you haven’t wished me a happy birthday yet,” Will answered, turning onto his side to face Hannibal, and pulling the edge of his comforter over his body as he went. “You could start there.”

“It’s well past your birthday now,” Hannibal murmured, leaning in again to press another kiss to Will’s cheek. “But Happy Birthday, darling.”

One more kiss—this time, lips touched lips. Gentle, sweet. Loving. The perfect ending to the best birthday he’d ever had.

He’d still be writing that complaint e-mail though.

Hannibal’s tongue slipped into his mouth. 

_And there’s another one,_ Will thought, returning the kiss, _who comes in discreet packaging._

-+Fin+-

**Author's Note:**

> This disaster was written based on a tweet-as-a-prompt: **[this](https://twitter.com/buttplugio/status/1306833800161193984)** is a link to the original tweet! I hope you enjoyed the belated birthday story as much as Will enjoyed his belated birthday gift!


End file.
